“Yes. We’ve met before.”
She nodded. “I remember. You were with Eric when he visited his father.” There was so much sadness in her eyes. So much weight on her shoulders.
“How is he? Better?”
“Physically, he is well. Emotionally, he is shattered over his son’s passing, as are we all.”
She opened a cabinet door and removed a stack of cloths that had been cut into strips. A tear splattered on the counter. Whatever remained on her cheek, she swept away with her arm before she turned around.
“I apologize. It is wrong to cry in front of you. Someone of your stature must think me quite insolent. I assure you, I meant no harm.” She dipped her chin to the floor and curtsied.
“No. I don’t think anything like that. If Eric’s death upsets you and makes you sad, don’t pretend it doesn’t. Were the two of you, you know, a couple?”
She blushed and shook her head. “No. He had no eyes for me, but it didn’t stop me from adoring him to the stars and back. He was unlike any other boy I ever knew. So mature. Charming. And you’re quite brazen for asking me to speak of him in such a way.” Her smile was sweet. Pleasant. She gathered the cloths in her arms and walked through another door and down a stark hallway.
“I’m sorry,” David said, following. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I find it helps when you’re sad or upset to talk about it. Keeping your feelings bottled up isn’t good for you.”
“And to expose them to the savior and paladin of the realm is not good for me, either.”
“Whose silly rule is that? Besides, this whole paladin savior thing is a little overrated. I happen to be a great listener.”
“Then perhaps you shall find your calling within this room.”
Lady Emelia opened the door inward and motioned David to enter. The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside was a windowless chapel with three rows of pews facing an altar draped in blue and gold velvet and topped with a spray of white roses. Sage sticks burned in bowls on side tables while torchlight and candles cast the room in a warm sunset glow. Trog sat in the first pew, his broad back to David. Before him, lying on a table draped in white silk was Eric.
He wore a deep-blue leather long coat laced to his neck in gold-colored cording, matching leather pants, and black boots. A narrow wreath of braided gold vines lay upon his head. His hands were clasped together on his chest, the grip of his sword wedged between them. He looked peaceful. Serene.
Dead.
Not the Eric David knew.
“Thank you for coming.” Trog’s voice was thick, gravely. Broken. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t.”
David raked his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. Sure. No problem.” He glanced behind him at the door. One press on the handle and he could be free.
“Come,” Trog said. “Sit next to me.”
David’s feet turned to lead. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d rather—”
“Stay away. Not look. Do you think I get joy out of this?”
“No, it’s just—”
“He’s my son. I’m supposed to be here and you’re not, is that it?”
“No. Stop putting words in my mouth. To be honest, if I’d known this was why Lady Emelia asked for me to come here, I wouldn’t have. I wasn’t ready to see him … or you.”
“You are not bound to this room or anyone in it. Leave if you must.”
There was no animosity, no guilt attached to his words. Only sincerity, grief, and a need to connect with someone. Anyone.
David unhinged his legs and found his seat to the right of Trog, far enough away to avoid looking directly at Eric’s face.
“How are you doing?” David asked, sitting on his hands.
Trog turned his face toward him. His eyes were red, swollen. Black and purple bruises covered his face. There were scabbed cuts above his brow, on his cheeks, cuts marred his neck and throat, and yet he managed to smile just a little. He patted David’s knee with a bandaged hand.
“I’ve been better. Right now, I feel as if I’m at sea in a rickety boat with a torn sail, and I’m being tossed around in a vicious storm. The wind, the rain, it’s all around me, above me, in me, and I can’t seem to navigate my way out of it.” He paused and clasped his hands between his knees, his shoulders slumped forward. “It’s strange. I’ve lost people in my life who I’ve loved with every breath I took, and yet this … this has unraveled me all the way down to my core. This anger, this pain, has gripped my soul in a vice, and it won’t let go. The more I try to escape, the tighter it binds me. I am unable to breathe without seeing his face staring back at me, his eyes begging me to help him, to do something, and I sat there, helpless, unable to do a damn thing.”
“There wasn’t anything you could have done, Trog. There was nothing anyone could have done. It was God’s decision.”
“And does this God you believe in have some glorious plan for me, because if he does, He’d better do it quick. I’ve run out of faith, and I’m short on patience and time. The silence of a grave is becoming more appealing by the second.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, but I do.” Trog snorted and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He was my son. I should have tried. I should have demanded Slavandria plunge every inch of magic she possessed into that hole so there would be no way he could die. I failed him when he needed me the most.” His shoulders heaved and shook beneath the weight of his tears. “I want him back. I want to tell him everything I didn’t get a chance to say. I want him to know how much I loved him, to say I’m sorry for everything.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
David pressed a hand to Trog’s back and swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew all too well about failing. About wanting to do more. Maybe there was still time to make things right. Maybe he had the power to do something no one else could. He took his hand back, his mind whirring with images of giant grasshoppers and night-blooming lilies.
“Have you thought about when the services will be?” he asked.
“Three days hence.” Trog winced as he stood, hiding his pain behind that all-too-familiar invisible mask. He moved with the agility of an old man with too many aches and pains. His left arm rested in a sling, and a fragmented line of blood stained his cream-colored shirt just above his navel. The shadowmorth wound still had not healed. David wondered if it ever would.
“Much to my protest,” Trog continued, walking toward the rear of the room, “there are dignitaries who wish to be present for the funeral sermon, not only for Eric, but for all those who perished in the battle. Ludicrous if you ask me, but Gildore feels it is necessary for the kingdom to heal.”
“I think I met one of those dignitaries this morning, a Prince Venniver the Fourth,” David said, spinning out of his pew.
“That egotistical brat is here?” Trog chuckled. “Figures he would be the first to arrive. I tell you, that boy is far too sanctimonious and insensible to wield the power he possesses.”
“He wanted to see you, to express his condolences to you directly. He said Eric had been kind to him.”
“Out of necessity. Believe me, Prince Venniver the Fourth is of little consequence despite his high regard for himself. His skin is thin, and his blood runs yellow, which is odd considering he is the son of the highly respected elven king.” He stomped out one of the sage sticks that had fallen to the floor. “The Edryd, however, are invaluable, and Eric knew it. He worked years developing a rapport with them. They trusted him. I think, given time, he would have convinced them to join our cause.”
“The prince said they don’t fight.”
“There are other ways to take a stand, David. The Edryd are resourceful, especially those who lack the ability to shift.”
“Can they negotiate with Einar, you know, to keep this from blowing up into a full-scale war? I mean, if they can end this without anyone else dying—”
“That demon does not kno
w the meaning of peace.” Trog slapped his leg with his fist. “He will not stop until we are all dead and he rules the entirety of Hirth. He is a tyrant and must be destroyed.”
There was a long pause. “And the elves?” David asked. “Will they fight for Hirth?”
“If given cause, not that it will matter.”
“Why do you say that?”
Trog’s eyes were vivid in the torchlight. “Were you not witness to the same battle that destroyed the only two beings capable of saving this realm?” There was so much anger, hate in his voice. “While I intend to make Einar realize the depth of my pain and suffering, it will do nothing to save this kingdom, or my own skin for that matter. When the time comes, those who do not submit willingly to his rule will be forced into a shadowmorth’s existence of torture and servitude. It is inevitable.” He turned and opened the door.
David raised his chin and threw back his shoulders. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, but it needed to be done for Hirth, for Fallhollow. For Havendale. “What if I told you that wasn’t entirely true? What if I told you two heirs still lived?” David kept his stance firm.
Trog pushed the door closed. “Then I’d say you better start talking.” He turned slowly around.
A chill raced down David’s spine, and his stomach bubbled with guilt, but he had to do it. He had to be forthright and honest with Trog. After all the man had done, after all he’d sacrificed, David owed him as much. He shut his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath, his fists clenched at his sides.
Forgive me, Charlotte. Forgive me.
Charlotte
“You did what?” Charlotte hurled a pillow at David. “How could you! Why would you tell him about me?” Another pillow sailed across the room.
David shielded the onslaught with his arm. “He’s our friend, Charlotte. He needed to know. It gave him a little bit of hope. You should have seen him. He felt so guilty about not being able to save Eric. When I told him about what we found out this morning, he seemed like a different person. It was as if I’d somehow given him something else to live for. This is his home, his country. Because of you, it has a chance to survive. That’s a big deal.”
“So you sacrificed me?”
“Look. I know it’s not ideal but … ”
“It’s a piece of land, David! I’m human. I have blood running through my veins. I can think. I can breathe, and I refuse to be their puppet. You may not have guts enough to stand up for yourself, but I will not be used like a pawn in their war games.”
“You’ve already been used, Char. You are mage born whether you want to accept it or not. You are also the youngest heir to the throne. That makes you the only one in the multitude of universes with the power to stop Einar. If you don’t, he’ll punch a hole into our world and destroy everything. Your grandfather, rather your great-grandfather, Aldamar, already said he wouldn’t be able to stop him if he came through again. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t you dare use that reasoning on me!” Charlotte stormed across the room and poked him in the chest. “You’re supposed to be my friend. You’re supposed to be on my side. You know how I feel about war. I will not fight!”
“Then everything we did, everything Eric did, including sacrificing his life to protect ours, means nothing. You’ll let Einar destroy our world, our home? Kill your parents? Is that the way you’re going to honor him?”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about sacrifice and honor! I know it better than you ever will. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t honor and remember Daniel’s sacrifice.”
“No, Charlotte, you hide behind it. You use it to keep from doing what you need to do. Whatever this is you’re doing for Daniel, it’s not honor. It’s spitting on his grave, and that’s wrong.”
“How dare you!” She smacked him across the face, the sting burning deep in her palm. Tears filled her eyes, her bottom lip trembling. “You crossed a line, David. Don’t do it again.” She plucked her shawl from the seat of a chair, flung it around her shoulders, and left the room.
She huffed and puffed down the steps of the grand staircase. “I don’t believe him! What a jerk. What an arrogant, self-centered jerk!” Sparks danced across her arms and fingers, the electrical pulses tingling over her skin. She shook her limbs, cursing the power raging through her, and made her way into the upper courtyard. She weaved in and out of the potted plants and statues, smacking the spindly limbs of the willows, cursing everything and everyone beneath her breath. She turned a corner and ran into a mass of overly-cologned silk and brocade.
“My lady, what a pleasure it is to have you run into me again.” Prince Venniver inclined his head. His gaze lingered much too long, his smile too desirous and unnerving. “I must say, however, you do not appear to be in any better of a mood than when you left our last encounter. Would you care to take a stroll?” He offered his arm. “I am most certain I can distract you from whatever travesty occupies your mind.”
Charlotte clutched her shawl tighter. “Thank you, but I don’t need your sort of distraction. If you will excuse me.”
She pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his arm. Creep. She could almost feel him gloating after her as she hurried down the steps to the lower courtyard and through the gatehouse.
On the bank of the Cloverleaf River, she pressed her back to the trunk of a massive weeping willow and sobbed. How had her life come to this? How could she undo it all? Reverse. Rewind. Was she destined to stay in Fallhollow? Would she ever be able to go home? How would she explain everything to her mom and dad? Should she tell them anything? Was David right? Had she been hiding behind her brother’s death?
She slid down the trunk and sat on the ground, thankful for the cool shade, the gentle rays of sunlight that skipped across the rippling blue waters, the light breeze that kissed her skin. Here, the fragrances were subtle, sweet, and unobtrusive, but the colors … she wondered if she’d ever get used to their vibrancy, their intense clarity. Nearby, a frog bounded over dirt and roots before diving in the river with a plunk, sending ripples across his watery world. Perhaps she should follow him, float downstream. Disappear forever.
Like Eric.
Eric. His name ripped the hole in her heart a little wider. She didn’t want to think of him, the pain of his passing fresh and raw. She’d lost her brother not even a year before to a violent, senseless death. Now Eric. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He had so much to give, so much more life to live. Why? Why did soulless creatures like Seyekrad and Einar get to live, while those with kind and generous, selfless hearts have to die? The knot in her stomach coiled.
Uncontrollable sobs crippled her in half. He was gone. She would never hear his laugh, or witness his kindness, his bravery. There would be no midnight strolls, no awkward first times, no holding hands while staring at stars. No stolen kisses.
She’d told him she loved him, but she’d lied. She’d said it to ease his heart, his mind, to give him comfort in his final moments. Maybe to even make her feel better. Was that so wrong? Surely he knew her heart belonged to David. Her heart would always belong to David.
David.
Rhythmic sobs fluttered from her. Why couldn’t he see it? Why was he so afraid of loving her? She needed him so much now. She needed his arms around her to console her, to comfort her, to take away the chaos around and inside of her, but all he could do was betray her and accuse her. Eric would have never done that. He would have been her rock. Her salvation.
Tears splattered to the ground. Oh, God, what’s wrong with me? Sorrow, confusion, guilt—they all punched holes in her heart, opening a cavern of emptiness so vast she was certain to be swallowed by it. Part of her wished it would. She wiped her face with the heels of her palms and hugged her knees folded to her chest. “I’m sorry, Eric,” she whispered to the water. “I’m so sorry I didn’t try to save you. I’m sorry I lied. Please forgive me.”
She wiped another tear and stared into nothing.
Quiet voices drifted up to her from downriver. A man and a woman spoke in hushed tones. Certain she heard her name, Charlotte stood and moved toward them. She kept to the trees, using their tremendous trunks to hide her. Through their thick weeping branches, she could make out strands of long, lavender hair and a man dressed in black.
Slavandria and Mangus.
Her parents.
“I’ve lost so much time with her,” Slavandria said. “Time I will never be able to retrieve. I saw the look on her face. She despises me.”
Mangus cupped her face in his hands. “No, she doesn’t. If anything, I sensed confusion and anger, but not hate. If you doubt me, you can ask her yourself. She’s standing behind you.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. Great. Ousted by a mind-reading mage.
She took a deep breath and exhaled, then emerged from the thick, shimmering green willow curtain. Charlotte’s gaze met Slavandria’s, and her heart tugged. Slavandria always appeared in control. Strong. Defiant. Now she looked lost and alone. Scared and worried. Could it be she was just as tormented as Charlotte?
“I-I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Charlotte said. “I mean, I did but I didn’t. I was sitting up river there and heard voices. I was curious, that’s all. I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.” She glanced at Mangus, her father.
He was handsome in his own right. Tall, dark haired. Built like a tank. And scars? Heavens he had them everywhere: on his face, his neck, his hands. There was no doubt he killed many men with those hands. He didn’t get the reputation he had, nor become the general of the mage army without flexing those muscles and using deadly force. Yet, right now, as she stared at him, there was nothing but tenderness on his face, in his eyes. A gentleness in his swagger. She saw it in the way he caressed Slavandria’s face. The way he looked into her eyes. There was no mistaking his love. But would he have the same love for her, his daughter? He’d already sworn his life to her, but was that obligation or love?
“Your interruption couldn’t have come at a better time,” Mangus said. “I’ve been meaning to get back to the castle anyway. I need to take care of some things before I return to the Windsong.”
Bane of the Dragon King Page 4